


The Took and the Baggins

by RarePairFairy



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: A Took Don't Take Shit From No Dwarf, BAMF Bilbo, Baggins Knows Best, Bilbo is in Trouble, Bilbo is just fucking Chaotic, Bofur is a Sweetheart, Canon Shrugged, Chaotic Good Gandalf, Chaotic Neutral Thranduil, Confused Dwarves, Confused Thorin, Gandalf is a Troll, Lawful Good Balin, M/M, Neutral Good Thorin, Sneaky Bilbo, Sneaky Thranduil, Thorin Has No Sense Of Direction, Thorin is in Trouble, slow burn bagginshield
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-29
Updated: 2015-01-06
Packaged: 2018-02-10 21:47:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 16,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2041416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RarePairFairy/pseuds/RarePairFairy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A little meddling with Gandalf's staff splits Bilbo's Took from his Baggins. Now the Company has to deal with both of them, and their respective issues.</p><p>Wherein Bagginses are no good for adventures, and Tooks are more likely than Dwalin to start a bar fight.</p><p>ON HIATUS</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Bilbo’s “inner Took” and “Baggins side” often get mentioned in fics, and I was thinking about that when the memory hit me of a certain episode from Red Dwarf, where the two extremes of Lister’s personality are given physical form. Then this happened.  
> The beginning is set somewhere in between the trolls and Rivendell. I’m borrowing a touch of book canon to give them some time to walk in between, because Peter Jackson is a genius but he Just Doesn’t Know When to Slow the Fuck Down.  
> Enjoy making sense of my brain fart.
> 
> P.S Just type “Thorin” into the additional tags section when posting a new fic. Do it. His tags are hilarious.

‘No. No, absolutely not. Your precious dignity has forced fourteen people to walk in circles for a grand wasted total of ten hours, and speaking as the barefoot fourteenth, I’ve had just about enough. You and your dignity can keep sulking about in the rocks for all I care until you tumble down a hill and get lodged in between two boulders, but I’m going down to the road to ask a passerby for directions, and good luck to you if you want to stop me!’

One thing the dwarves learned fairly quickly about Bilbo Took was that he wasn’t afraid to ignore, disobey and challenge Thorin. He almost seemed to enjoy it. Not out of foolhardiness or a desire to show off. Where Bilbo Baggins was intimidated by Thorin’s attitude, Bilbo Took was thoroughly pissed off by it.

‘You are speaking out of turn, Master Baggins,’ Thorin said, his voice dangerous. The Took’s temper may have turned out unexpectedly fiery, but Thorin was Thorin, and after the shock wore off, he responded to Bilbo’s insolence the same way he responded to any and all insolence. Angrily.

‘Bah!’ Bilbo tossed over his shoulder, and continued striding down the hill.

Gandalf watched the exchange with a combination of guilty joy and perturbation. Most of the company, the members who were unwilling to blame the princes, at least, blamed Gandalf for Bilbo’s wild pendulum-swings from one personality to another. The only distinguishing names that Bilbo had accepted for his two halves was the Took and the Baggins. The Took bore a striking resemblance to his mother, while the Baggins, in all his mannerisms, was even more staid and reserved than the hobbit who’d had a near apoplectic fit at the invasion of his pantry.

Naturally, the dwarves preferred his Took side and met it with smiles when the hobbit’s frown of disapproval over a watery stew turned into a bawdy Shire drinking song, accompanied with the apparently obligatory dance, typically taught to and shared with Bofur.

But right now, with Thorin scowling from his hair to his boots and Bilbo striding away to ask for disapproved-of directions from an unkempt-looking man shuffling down the road, none of the company knew how to feel. They _were_ feeling put out at having wasted an entire day going in what they thought was the right direction, only to pass the same set of boulders three times, but Thorin was their king. Lost or not, he was the one they were supposed to be following.

Thorin snorted and rotated on his heel, intent on continuing ahead. Slowly the dwarves got back to their feet, some of them keeping an eye on Bilbo as he stood half in the shadow of the cloaked man. Some, Balin and the princes included, were struck by wariness. They had met cleaner-looking men who turned out to be bandits and ruffians, and Bilbo was small.

‘He will follow if he decides to,’ Dwalin commented to his brother before continuing to the front to walk by Thorin. Fili and Kili shared a look. Balin kept his eyes staunchly on Bilbo.

A short shout, and several more sets of eyes turned, just in time to see the man’s hand clutched in the front of Bilbo’s coat. And then, to see the man double over in pain from a very low and well-aimed kick.

Bilbo swiftly yanked the hood of the man’s cloak down over his head and hooked a thigh around his knees, launching him head-first onto the ground. For good measure, he jumped on his opponent’s (though “victim” was perhaps a more appropriate term at this stage) shoulders to hold him face-down, before stomping once, heavily, on the back of his head.

Leaving his victim unconscious, Bilbo dusted off his hands and strode back up the hill, grumbling what sounded like a stream of very unhobbit-like curse words. He looked up in surprise to see that most of the company had come to a dead halt.

‘What? You’re still here? And I thought I’d have to trundle along to catch up with you. Well, you’ll be pleased to know that venture produced no more good news than a drunken soothsayer,’ he said, crossly but in a matter-of-fact sort of way.

Thorin, having turned to look back, offered only a smirk.

‘Perhaps you will think again before leaving the group to ask for directions,’ he commented, turning to face the front. Bilbo rolled his eyes and planted his hands on his hips.

‘Actually,’ he said loudly. ‘I was _right_. We’re going _completely the wrong way_ , you _great royal goose_.’

.

It was a Took that arrived in Rivendell, but it was a Baggins who sat at table with Balin, a king, a Lord, and a wizard, not even glancing at the elvish dagger he had conscientiously discarded to lay out of sight of the table even as Elrond illuminated upon the heritage of Orcrist and Glamdring. Balin was secretly relieved. Dwarves were almost expected to misbehave in elvish company, and Balin knew his people would be forgiven (eventually), but Bilbo was representing his race in what was perhaps a once-in-a-century occurrence, and Balin knew Bilbo would be mortified if the memory of his own behaviour upon his first visit to Rivendell was of dancing on the furniture and taking part in a food fight while elves tried to play music for him.

As it was, Bilbo Baggins (or just _The Baggins_ as the Company had taken to calling him) was flawlessly well-behaved, adequately engaged in and enamoured of his surroundings, and the ideal example of humble, polite, peaceful-natured and even almost shy guest in the company of their obliging hosts.

Needless to say, Thorin was discovering a world of new things to dislike about their burglar.

When they left early in the morning with Bilbo lagging at the back of the group, obviously torn and visibly wilting with every step they took, some hearts went out to him, but most were looking hopefully for the return of the less complain-y Bilbo. At least for some balance, whatever middle ground had stood between the two starkly different sides of Bilbo’s heritage before Fili and Kili “borrowed” Gandalf’s staff to “study” it and “accidentally” pointing it at Bilbo. Bilbo had been hired as an individual, after all, not multiple individuals. The longer he remained split, the more the Company felt like they were travelling with two entirely different hobbits.

Bilbo was still being Baggins when the storm happened, and the mountains they were trying to cross began to stand up and throw bits of themselves at each other. Watching the sheer terror in that distinctly vulnerable face was too much for even stern and guarded Dwalin to bear, and it could be clearly heard in his attempt to inject some reassuring inclusivity into the comment, “I thought we’d lost _our_ burglar.”

Perhaps that was what set Thorin off. Perhaps it was the storm, and almost having tumbled off a cliff, or perhaps it was just one too many near-death experiences in the past week.

‘He’s been lost ever since he left home.’

Bilbo looked like he agreed with that one.

‘He has no place amongst us.’

Bilbo looked, just for an instant, like he didn’t want to agree with that one.

Later in the evening the rain let up, and Bofur tried to persuade the Baggins to stay. Bofur wondered if the separation between Bilbo’s two halves was really all that stark. Baggins didn’t want an adventure, but even the most proper and reserved of all hearts is capable of affection, and whatever affection Baggins felt toward his dwarves, it made leaving almost as painful as staying. So Bofur tried to be kind. He tried to let Bilbo be whatever he needed to be in that moment, even while he silently hoped that the Took would steer Bilbo back to them before morning.

As it turned out, of course, that wasn’t necessary.

It spoke volumes of the degree of terror goblins hold over dwarves that no-one even noticed Bilbo missing until they were back out and on the other side of the mountains. It spoke volumes of how much trust Gandalf initially (read: _initially_ ) held in the dwarves, and perhaps in Bilbo too, that he did not think to check, not even once in the fracas that was their escape, that Bilbo was among the group. Everyone was meant to stick together.

There was a suggestion, a whisper of guilt in Thorin’s barked assertion that Bilbo had left before the goblins could claim him. No-one mentioned it. No-one mentioned the fine string of hope woven through the guilt, that even if he was useless, let the Baggins be _alive_ and useless and on his way back to his beloved elves.

‘Master Baggins is long gone.’

They all took a second to hope “long gone” did not mean “dead”.

And Bilbo Took took severe umbrage to the assumption.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2, featuring the word “axolotl”, Bilbo’s Opening Rant Pt 2, and An Epic Hug
> 
> I apologize for the pace and the too-long sentences, chapter 1 and this chapter were both written in a rush. If I get around to it after training and work, I’ll attempt an edit.

‘For your dratted information, your royal prickliness, _he isn’t_.’

Gandalf had never been so glad to see someone in all his life. Balin had never been so glad to hear someone call Thorin a prick. At least, he thought that was what just happened.

‘What sort of leader goes and says something like that? I signed your official piece of parchment, didn’t I? I snuck into a troll camp to save your blasted ponies, didn’t I? And don’t you think for a moment that I’ve been twiddling my thumbs for the past twenty-four hours, I had to play a game of riddles with a naked cave-dwelling axolotl-man just to trick him into showing me the way out, and thanks _very much_ for bothering to search for me before _giving me up for long gone, by the way!_ ’

Not all of the company was distracted and stunned silent by Bilbo’s sudden reappearance and talk of naked cave-dwelling things.

‘How on earth did you escape?’ Kili asked, eyes full of wonder. Thorin hadn’t been so tempted to smack his nephew since before they were old enough to string their own bows.

‘Mind your own business,’ Bilbo said loftily, sliding his hands casually into his front pockets.

‘What does it matter,’ Gandalf said, slightly thoughtful but smiling in a deliberate-looking way. ‘He’s back.’

‘It matters,’ Thorin grunted, regaining his composure. Receiving a dressing-down from Bilbo never put him in a conversational mood, but this time, burning curiosity and a need to comprehend their bizarre burglar drove him to ask. ‘Why did you come back?’

After what he had overheard before the floor of the cave dropped them into Goblin Town, Thorin _had_ been convinced that Bilbo had left, and he intended to point that out to Bilbo on his own time. He would never leave a member of the company willingly languishing in enemy territory, no matter how irritating that company member happened to be. Fili and Kili were proof of that, nephews or no. Bilbo Baggins, all of his conservatism and cautiousness and homesickness condensed into one personality, was not made for travel. He was not made for the company of dwarves. Why would he stay with them, and forsake his only chance to safely return home? It defied logic.

Bilbo, Baggins or Took or some mysteriously balanced combination of the two, chose to interpret Thorin’s question the only way he knew how.

‘Look, I know I’m an enormous thorn in your side. I know I have been since I signed the contract. I’m not going to try and deny it. And I’m not going to deny that I miss the Shire, either. I miss my cousins, and the party tree, and my books and my garden. That’s where I should be right now, not halfway across Middle Earth. And Erebor’s where you should be, because it’s _your_ home. So you may be an arrogant piece of work, King Thorin, but there’s an even more arrogant piece of work living in your home, and I plan on fulfilling my end of the contract. Even if it means giving that dirty great lizard a kick and dealing with the consequences.’

The silence that fell across the group at that moment was a peculiar combination of staggered and humbled. Ori, who had a soft spot for accidental poetic language, looked positively awed. Thorin, who had a soft spot for people who spoke their mind without preamble (at least once he got used to them), looked like he was finally willing to tolerate their burglar, even if he was an honest-to-Mahal pain in the side, the neck, the ass, and anywhere else a three-foot hobbit could be an unmanageable pain. Because that answer was honest. It was loyalty, in its purest, most undiluted form. Loyalty for its own sake, not for reward or emotional sentiment.

The moment was abruptly ruined by howls, far too close and far too soon.

Plummeting down the hill on foot, the company took out a pair of wargs before they had to resort to frantically climbing the trees. Then they were force to hop from one pine to the next, until finally they all hung onto the creaking branches of a lone tree at the very edge of the cliff.

‘Curse the dirty mongrels, I’m a cat person,’ Bilbo growled, clinging to a branch with his feet dangling above Fili’s head.

Gandalf had the inspired idea of throwing flaming pinecones, and for a whole thirty seconds, the dwarves had reason to cry victoriously. The tree had other ideas.

Then Azog appeared, turning the flames hellish and the dire circumstance sombre with the anticipation of absolute immediate doom. The few who had seen him and lived were either paralysed by shock or filled with rage, or in Thorin’s case, both. With his company hanging on the edge of death, the murderer of his grandfather standing in sight and no other option in sight, it was beyond Thorin’s ability to do anything other than charge.

Balin and Dwalin cried out. Thorin was struck down, and those on the tree struggled to hang on, to call out, to keep hold of each other. Thorin was tossed by the warg across the flaming clearing, and all the company, for a brief, terrible moment, felt the heavy weight of utter failure settle upon them, as if to push them from the tree. All the company, that is, save Bilbo.

The orc never knew what hit him. If asked, with his dying breath, he might have said “large fluffy rodent with a sharp stick.” Bilbo did not know if Thorin was awake to see it happen. In the moment, he didn’t particularly care. His only thought was to protect. This was a strange thing for a Took to do, let alone a Baggins, and at that point Bilbo did not know which he was, and he did not know why he did it, other than because watching Thorin fall was so unbearably painful that he would gladly have taken the king’s place if it was the only way to save him.

And take his place he nearly did. Until the eagles came.

Rescue was overwhelming, and only slightly less terrifying than being under attack. This was mostly because of the sheer distance from the ground. All fourteen members of the company, Gandalf excepted, belonged to subterranean races, and perhaps it was that great height and the shock of everything that had happened over such a short period that took the Took and squashed it firmly back inside a thick shell of thoroughly frightened Baggins, so that by the time they were gently laid atop the Carrock without so much as a “there you go”, Bilbo was shaking like a leaf and in desperate need of a cup of tea and a lie down.

He did watch however, with suspiciously glittering eyes, as Gandalf bent over Thorin and worked. The rest of the dwarves gradually joined them as Thorin’s eyes opened. His first question, his first apparent thought, was to ask after the Halfling.

A brief smile graced Bilbo’s features. Gandalf looked satisfied, almost approving, as he assured Thorin that Bilbo was safe. Thorin struggled to his feet with Dwalin’s aid and the most anyone expected was a _thankyou_ and recognition, a sign of new trust, and so everyone, Bilbo included, was caught rather off guard by the loud, rasping, accusatory sound of

‘ _You_.’

Bilbo, demurely Baggins, expression faltering, went stiff.

‘You could have gotten yourself killed. Did I not say you were a burden? That you had no place amongst us?’

Thorin was halfway to Bilbo now, and several members of the company were itching to hold him back. In the case of the ones who cared deeply for Bilbo, it was for the hobbit’s safety. In the case of the ones who cared deeply for Thorin, it was for the sake of keeping their king from doing something he would later regret. Thorin had never berated anyone for saving his life before. In over one hundred and fifty years, this was a first.

‘I have never been so wrong in all my life.’

So was that.

The blank expression on Bilbo’s face, immediately followed by one of pleased surprise, drove away the last doubt. The company cheered, and Bilbo was glad for it, because at least his faint whimper was not heard by them, even as it was heard by Thorin, who released him from the dizzying embrace to look him over for injuries. Bilbo tried to school his features even as his heart did a jig in his chest.

‘I am sorry I doubted you.’

It was difficult to look into Thorin’s eyes when he looked so sincere, so genuine, face still bleeding from his injuries, but somehow Bilbo managed it. If only for a few seconds.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Includes the Giant Badass Vegetarian Bear we all know and love, and a sneaky reference to the Little Bunny line that Jackson so unforgivably left out of the movie.
> 
> Also, omigosh! So many hits!! Thank you all you lovely people, I hope I meet and maintain expectation <3 I wrote this in a bit of rush, so it may have some spelling mistakes or word repetition. I'm at work for the next three days solid so i won't able to go back and update a cleaner version before then, but if you see anything that needs improving or fixing, just let me know in the comments.

Beorn never ended up meeting the Took, but perhaps that was for the best. No-one was quite sure how he would have responded to a wilder Bilbo, but the sweet temperament of the Baggins apparently reminded Beorn so much of a rabbit that he decided that was what Bilbo was, and the Baggins was too nervously polite to correct him. Even if it did result in being patted on the head once or twice. At least Beorn didn’t try to hand-feed him lettuce (in front of anyone else).

Thorin internally had hoped that the Took would resurface. It was easier to discover Bilbo’s true thoughts and feelings if the Baggins wasn’t around to suppress them. Thorin had so looked forward to a day when Bilbo would just keep his thoughts and problems to himself, but now that he wanted to know more about this unexpectedly brave little creature, Bilbo had clammed up and refused to speak more than a few words at a time.

It did nothing for Thorin’s mood, and confused his nephews and Balin, who had expected a more positive or at least less cranky Thorin after they climbed down from the carrock, after his newfound liking for their burglar and the sight of Erebor, finally visible, in the distance. But Thorin had a new preoccupation, and it came in the form of waiting for the Took to reappear so he could have an actual conversation, instead of those stunted, mumbled but polite exchanges that were all the Baggins could muster.

They remained among the bees and the sanctuary of Beorn’s home and property for two more days, to recuperate and to regain their bearings. Bilbo puttered about among the flowers, patiently tolerating Beorn’s slightly overbearing treatment and looking altogether still shaken. Bofur tried repeatedly to coax him into conversation, but it was Balin and his milder manner that eventually broke through Bilbo’s reticence.

It was evening, and most of the company had retired. Sitting by his side in the quiet, it was easier for Balin to see the depth of Bilbo’s conflicted emotions and his bewilderment at himself. For the first time, Balin pitied Bilbo for the effects of Gandalf’s staff and Fili and Kili’s interfering curiosity. If the company were suffering from Bilbo’s switches back and forth, what must Bilbo himself be feeling, after all?

‘I keep waiting for it to stop,’ Bilbo confessed. ‘But I can’t imagine being one person anymore. I feel that, if the magic does wear off, or when it does, I’ll be losing two parts of myself instead of unifying them. I don’t know how …’ Bilbo trailed off, voice muted in the quiet room but still frustrated. Balin patted Bilbo’s shoulder.

‘You will not lose your bravery, or your decency,’ he assured. ‘Such qualities do not exist in isolation. At any rate, they _should_ not, as we have seen.’

Bilbo smiled and chuckled faintly. ‘I suppose you’re right.’ He hesitated before speaking again. Balin waited patiently.

‘It’s, I suppose, mostly … it’s _him_ that I’m worried about. Not that I have any right, of course, not being family or kin. It’s just that, the more I think about it, he seems more strung up by his own worries than I am. And on top of that, he seems to be so used to fearing for everyone else that he has no fear left for himself, and ends up doing silly things like charging into a clearing full of wolves and orcs …’ Bilbo trailed off again, this time with a shiver. Balin, finally understanding, placed his hand again on Bilbo’s shoulder.

‘We all worry, as we should,’ Balin said levelly. ‘And you are right. I do not believe he knows how dearly he is cared for.’

Bilbo met Balin’s eyes for a very brief moment, before looking back to the fire. The rest of the evening was spent in companionable silence.

Balin had stood and was about to go to bed when he caught a faint glint in the corner, across the room and beneath the window, where Thorin had made his own nest. The second he saw it, the glint was gone, and he wondered if it was perhaps a trick of the light. The fire reflected in a clasp from Thorin’s braids, and not, in fact, in a watchful blue eye.

Offering Bilbo one last smile, Balin decided to pick his battles and leave. If Thorin wanted to eavesdrop, well, Balin wouldn’t encourage it, but he wouldn’t point it out either.

The following morning was punctuated by planning and gathering supplies. Beorn generously offered them food to ration, as well as new bags to carry their supplies. Bilbo hung around after breakfast, accepting a pack and a brief explanation of the fairly straightforward plans for cutting through the forest. Then he vanished again into the garden to observe the flowers one last time. Thorin watched him go and allowed him a few minutes of solitude before following him. The other dwarves in the room pretended not to notice.

Thorin found Bilbo sitting under a tree, picking listlessly at a small red blossom. Thorin was sure he had seen the flower among others, like froth covering whole sections of the field. Flowers and plants that were not medically useful were all more or less weeds to him, but there was something in the delicate way Bilbo held the base of the stem and stroked the petals that gave it a gemlike new life in the hobbit’s fine hands.

He announced his presence by snapping a twig under his boot, and Bilbo looked up. He did not look surprised. At first Thorin was put off, then he dismissed it as one of Bilbo’s hidden talents. A successful burglar, especially one as nimble as Bilbo to escape the goblins unscathed, must have hearing good enough to have heard Thorin coming before Thorin even saw him beneath the tree.

‘Am I missed?’ Bilbo asked timidly, though there was a little spark of something, of anticipation perhaps, as if the thought of being missed by the dwarves comforted Bilbo.

‘Peace, master burglar,’ Thorin said. He liked how Bilbo’s cheeks flushed slightly when he was called Burglar instead of Baggins, and reminded himself to do it more often. ‘The others know where you are.’

‘Ah,’ Bilbo said, more of a gentle hum than an acknowledgement. He looked down at the red flower in his hands, and one foot tapped self-consciously against the grass. Thorin sat beside him, and felt him stiffen. He wondered if it was surprise, and hoped it wasn’t fear.

Struck by a sudden idea, Thorin reached over and took the flower from Bilbo’s hands.

‘I have little knowledge of gardens or their contents,’ he said, pretending to inspect the petals with a jeweller’s eye. Bilbo looked up at Thorin with a mix of surprise and sudden rapt attention. ‘Perhaps you would enlighten me?’

Bilbo gazed at Thorin’s expression, more absorbed by Thorin’s words or his actions than by the flower stolen from his fingertips. His eyes flickered briefly, very briefly, from Thorin’s eyes to his lips and back up again. He leaned back very slightly, as if only just becoming aware of the tiny distance between them.

Then his eyes blinked once, twice, and a wry smile spread from one corner of his mouth to the other. He leaned back in again until his arm and Thorin’s arm were pressed together from shoulder to elbow, and plucked the red flower from where it lay in the flat of Thorin’s palm.

‘There’s no need to humour me, master dwarf,’ Bilbo laughed. ‘You’re no more interested in flowers than I am in rocks.’

For the first time since the carrock, Thorin smiled widely.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it's been almost a month since I last updated ... school and work, same reasons as you'd expect. Next chapter shouldn't take as long.

It hadn’t occurred to Thorin or Gandalf that the divide within Bilbo might extend into a divide within the Company itself. Brothers who had been managing their own differences for over a century began to argue daily.

‘I’m simply pointing out an obvious truth _. Discretion_ and _professionalism_ are the qualities best suited to a professional burglar,’ Dori said (snapped) primly (starchily) at a scoffing Nori. ‘Being bold isn’t necessarily the best thing for such a role.’

‘And you think the Took can’t be discreet or professional? And as for boldness, how well do you think the Baggins is going to fare when he’s standin’ toes-to-tits with a larking great dragon? Face it, the Baggins has all the manners, but the Took’s got all the balls.’

‘I’m with Nori,’ Bofur chipped in, receiving a sharp look from Bombur. ‘What? He’s got a point. Try and imagine the Baggins getting past a guard dog, let alone a dragon. The Took’s the one to do it.’

‘I think the Took is too brash,’ Bombur sulked.

‘You’re only saying that because he stole your second helpings.’

‘And he called me fat.’

‘Well my money’s on the Took,’ Dwalin stated, nodding to Gloin, who began scribbling in the wagers column of his little budgeting book.

‘I think the Baggins is braver than he seems,’ Balin suggested gently. ‘He’s just too polite to show it.’

Fili and Kili looked anxiously at each other. They did not want to argue with each other, but they didn’t want to miss out on the betting either. Every other set of brothers was divided over having faith in the Baggins and wanting to rely on the Took.

Fortunately, the youngest two were saved by the sudden appearance of Bilbo himself who trotted into their midst and smacked Gloin upside the head.

They were mere hours into Mirkwood and the Took had appeared two days before, which led most of the Company to believe that he would be the Baggins for two thirds of the trip through the forest. That was where the betting had started; Gloin had calculated that, assuming they arrived before or on Durin’s Day, and going by Bilbo’s usual pattern of staying one personality for between thirty and forty hours, odds were it would be the Baggins who entered the mountain first.

Now Gloin was looking like he regretted bringing it up at all, as he rubbed the back of his head and scowled at Bilbo, who snorted at his expression.

‘Firstly, it’s terribly poor taste to bet on travelling companions,’ he said briskly. ‘And secondly, my money is on the Took.’

‘Of course it is, you are the Took,’ Dwalin grunted.

‘And I imagine the Baggins is going to put his money on the Baggins, which means you don’t win or lose either way,’ Nori pointed out.

‘The Baggins doesn’t bet,’ Bilbo said, a little regretfully.

Fili and Kili decided to make their bets separate from one another, and find out who won (and who betted on whom) on Durin’s day. Ori would have backed the Baggins out of solidarity with the only other shy person in the Company, but he didn’t have the heart to side with one of his brothers over the other. Gloin stayed out of the betting, but scowled at Oin when he backed the Baggins.

Thorin, when asked by Dwalin what he thought, stroked his bead and hummed.

‘I think,’ he said contemplatively, ‘that both the Took _and_ the Baggins will enter the mountain when the time comes.’

There was a moment of silence.

‘That’s cheating!’ Kili exclaimed, wishing fervently that he and his brother had thought to bet that. Dwalin barked out a laugh. Thorin held up his hand.

‘You misunderstand,’ he said. ‘I do not think the Took and the Baggins will still be separated by Durin’s Day. I do not think that confounded spell will last that long.’

‘Bear in mind, we didn’t think the confounded spell would last _this_ long,’ Balin pointed out.

‘You have my bet,’ Thorin said with an air of finality. Gloin, eyebrows raised and barely shaking his head, made a note.

Bilbo travelled casually to the front of the group as they kept moving along the path, winding through the trees and negotiating the dark and the unnatural silence surrounding them now that the conversation had petered off. Thorin looked down his shoulder, instantly feeling suspicious. Bilbo was still the Took, after all. Bilbo looked back up at him, the very face of innocence.

‘Rather dim and eerie, this place,’ Bilbo commented. Thorin grunted his agreement. The place stunk of elves and magic, though that probably wasn’t what Bilbo had meant.

‘Probably best that we keep close together.’

Thorin was about to agree when he felt Bilbo’s arm slip into his. His teeth clicked as his mouth reflexively shut.

So perhaps accosting Bilbo when he was alone in the garden had been a bold move. Coaxing him into conversation, walking with him back to the house, had been forward. But dwarves were rarely public about their affections. Even married couples more often walked side by side rather than hold hands, or link arms. They weren’t even courting. What was Bilbo thinking??

Thorin forced himself to calm down and ignore the choked sound that signalled the moment Dwalin noticed the canoodling happening at the front of the group. Bilbo probably didn’t even know he was canoodling. It was barely canoodling, anyway. Hobbits probably walked arm-in-arm all the time. It was probably a gesture of camaraderie, not necessarily flagrantly presumptuous. It wasn’t even necessarily an affectionate gesture. Anyway, it made sense that Bilbo would want to stick close to Thorin in a big, dark, scary forest. Thorin was a skilled warrior, able to defend Bilbo if they were attacked. And Bilbo had saved Thorin’s life, so it was only fair Thorin acknowledge the protection he owed Bilbo.

Thorin staunchly ignored the smug look on Bilbo’s face. He probably just felt reassured and safe. Even the Took wouldn’t be so audacious as to flirt with a king in front of an entire group of people.

Except that he would.

Thorin kept walking in silence. He stifled the smile threatening to show on his lips. He wouldn’t give Bilbo the satisfaction of embarrassing him. He wouldn’t push the hobbit away, but he wasn’t a simpering princeling. Two could play at this game.

Unwinding his arm from Bilbo’s just enough to grasp his hand and entwine their fingers together, Thorin could feel the exact moment he went from Took to Baggins. A stiffness in the shoulders that travelled all the way down his arm. A stumble in his step. A frigid aspect to his countenance that was somewhere between outrage at Thorin and outrage at himself, and a total unwillingness to confront or do anything about the situation.  Thorin almost felt bad for their little burglar.

He didn’t let him go, though.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A respectable Baggins would NEVER burgle. Not even to burgle his friends from a dungeon. No, a Baggins always asks.
> 
> Politely.
> 
> Wherein I have a thing for elves being captivated by hobbits. Particularly I have a thing for Thranduil being captivated by Bilbo, not in a Randy Thrandy sort of way but in a “what is this mysterious creature” sort of way. 
> 
> Basically I want Thranduil to meet a hobbit and be like “I don’t know what that is but I want twenty”

Thranduil gazed in acute fascination at the small child-like figure standing before the throne. It, _he_ , was man-like in shape but with pointed ears and large bare feet. A tickle at the back of his mind told him that he knew what race this fellow was, but it had been a long time since Thranduil had left the Greenwood, longer still that he had ventured further than a few miles in any direction. He fancied he had not left at all since Erebor was occupied. The dwarfish kingdom had not crossed his mind for decades, but since that disastrous interview with the outcast King Without a Mountain, memories had come unbidden flooding back.

And now here was this tiny creature, requesting an audience after somehow managing to infiltrate the woodland realm’s fortress without being seen or heard. Either he was very daring and very skilled, or very lucky and very stupid. Thranduil was hoping for the latter. He wasn’t feeling very charitable.

‘Not a man, but not a dwarf, and most certainly not an elf. What are you?’ Thranduil asked directly, not rising from his throne. The figure fidgeted, then straightened his back and pinned his arms to his sides in an effort to stop his hands from shaking.

‘My name is Bilbo Baggins of the Shire, your highness, and I am a hobbit.’ Spoken clearly, overly formal, very self-conscious. Either this hobbit was not a spy by trade, or he was a very good liar.

‘I come to appeal on behalf of my friends. You have them locked in your dungeons. I humbly and with the utmost respect must request that you set them free.’

Thranduil leaned forward in his seat, both charmed and annoyed. He had a dim memory of hobbits – small, modest creatures, who travelled West longer ago than Thranduil cared to remember. He’d forgotten they existed. And now here was one, travelling in a company of dwarves to reclaim a lost kingdom?

‘You have my interest, but not yet my approval, Bilbo Baggins of the Shire,’ Thranduil said slowly. ‘There are many things to consider. The conduct of your King Thorin not least among them. I have spoken with him, and he has not endeared me to his plight.’

The hobbit considered this, then, to Thranduil’s interest, slowly nodded.

‘He is rather brash,’ the hobbit admitted carefully. ‘But his plight is real, as is the plight of the rest of the company. I beg that you show lenience. Many of them have left their families in order to travel so far to right an old wrong. There is a chance, we know, of failure, but they are all willing to risk their lives in order to regain their heritage so that they may have something to offer their children. Some among their number do not have any other home to go back to. Please,’ the hobbit said earnestly, staring up at Thranduil with shining eyes. ‘Please, do not take that from them. Not for the sake of punishing their stubborn King.’

Thranduil gazed down at the hand-wringing hobbit. He kept his face expressionless as he considered the hobbit’s impassioned plea. That troop of unruly dwarves must mean something to this peculiar little fellow, if he was willing to go directly to the king after successfully sneaking into the heart of the kingdom just to beg for their freedom.

‘You speak eloquently, for a spy,’ Thranduil observed, testing. The hobbit’s eyes immediately snapped back up and his cheeks turned pink.

‘I am certainly no spy, your highness. I did not enter your realm with permission, that much is true, but I only did it because I was afraid I would not gain an audience with you simply by asking nicely. Your realm is much too secure for that.’

‘Evidently not,’ Thranduil disputed. ‘Not if a bare-footed hobbit can find his way in.’

The hobbit bit his lip, unsure how to respond. Then he clasped his hands in front of him and nodded.

‘It is true that I did not have much difficulty … _sneaking_ in.’

Thranduil raised his eyebrows.

‘But we hobbits are very keen at hide-and-seek. I can tread quieter and more lightly than a cat. Not to brag, of course.’

‘Of course,’ Thranduil said dryly, though in truth, he was more intrigued than ever.

‘My meaning is, that any success on my part in infiltrating your home is due to how suited I am to moving unseen, not to any shortcoming on the part of your security.’

There was something about the careful sincerity with which the line was delivered, which made Thranduil consider accepting the hobbit’s plea purely on the strength of his words. He presented a charismatic figure, an honest negotiator, if a little naïve. He had probably been dragged into this ridiculous venture against this will and bonded with his kidnappers along the way.

Unbeknownst to Bilbo, Thranduil began to seriously consider keeping the dwarves captive for the sake of saving, if not only their own lives, at least the life of this fair hobbit. Perhaps if he delayed master Baggins long enough, treated him as an honoured guest and fed him well, captivated his loyalty the way the dwarves clearly had, he could even convince the hobbit to remain in the Greenwood instead of continuing on his foolhardly journey. It was a tempting thought.

‘Your cleverness and kind spirit have moved me,’ Thranduil said, continuously calculating the situation in the corner of his mind. ‘But I will not alter my sentence for a handful of pretty words. Legolas,’ he said, sending a look to his son who stood half in shadow, looking torn between compassion and distrust. Legolas nodded.

‘My son will escort you to a suitable room. A guest room, not a cell,’ he added, at the hint of fear that showed in the hobbit’s face. ‘Dine with me tonight, and you shall have another chance at changing the fate of your friends.’

Dismissing the hobbit and his son, Thranduil leaned back in his throne and thought about the dinner menu. The hobbit had gone from fearful to overwhelmed by relief and desire the moment Thranduil mentioned dining. He and the dwarves would have been in the forest for long enough to run out of travelling rations. He must be starving.

A table set with grapes and pomegranates and plums, roasted fennel and mushrooms in butter and herbs, venison and dark red spiced wine. That ought to do the trick. An unpleasant road, at the end of which lay a dragon and enough treasure to plunge the hobbit’s dear King Thorin into a never-ending madness, would not look so appealing after the mercy and hospitality of the woodland realm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil, you sneaky fucker.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here, have a long chapter. In which the Baggins gets his Took on.
> 
> This chapter was inspired by a prompt I saw floating around somewhere sometime. I can’t remember where I saw the prompt or who suggested it.
> 
> Also wow, the pace of this story has like totally changed in the space of two chapters 0_0

Not for the first time, or the last, Bilbo bemoaned his lack of presentability.

Even after bathing and giving his clothes a thorough wash, his waistcoat was still missing its buttons and the faint fragrance of months on the road clung to his jacket. The hems of his trousers were frayed and his shirt had a greyish tinge that no amount of scrubbing or fine elvish soap could shift. All that aside, he did feel significantly better after being able to properly bathe himself and wash and brush his hair and feet. Elvish bathing facilities left little to be desired.

He also felt a strange appreciation about being the first one to speak to Thranduil. The first _Bilbo_ , that was. The Took would have said something horrendous for sure, or worse, tried to break the dwarves out without even trying to reason with the elf king. There was still a nervous chance that the Took would reappear before the Baggins could have another chance at convincing the king to let the dwarves go. He knew it was a folly, but Bilbo could practically feel the Took gnawing at the bit, trying to regain control.

Soft and feeble though he seemed, the Baggins was no fool. He knew that Thranduil was capable, even likely, to attempt a trap or a trick. All people who felt entitled were inclined to manipulate. Certain relatives had taught Bilbo that. And Thorin had said enough to help Bilbo gain an idea of Thranduil’s levels of self-interest, biased though that source was.

Bilbo knew that Thorin’s behaviour was not the sole reason for Thranduil keeping all thirteen of the dwarves locked up. If he was going to convince the elf king to let them go, he’d have to do better than “please have mercy”.

An elf in forest green materialized in the doorway carrying a bundle of cloth. Apparently Bilbo was not the only person bothered over his overworn attire. A shirt made of fine white material sat atop the other items. Like the robes and uniforms of every elf he had thus far seen, the proffered apparel mirrored the colours and shapes of the woods; silvery white like a stream for the undershirt, fine green for the robe that went over it, cut to suggest the symmetrical curves of a leaf and the jagged irregular lines leading outward from the stem. The trousers, which looked like the other items to have been appropriated from a child’s attire, were an earthy brown. Even the sash belt was bark-coloured. The texture of the material was divine.

Bilbo could not help but cynically wonder, even as he marvelled at his new clothes, if this gift was meant to soften him. Or perhaps it was meant to pose a test. The very thought of scorning the gift and going to dine with a king in his battered travelling clothes made Bilbo shudder with shame, but he knew deep down that wearing Thranduil’s gift would change the mood of the whole discussion. Assuming it would be a discussion, and not a trial of verbal combat and evasion techniques.

Hours slowly passed and Bilbo struggled to come up with an adequate argument. He was far from frantic (it was hard to feel frantic in such a nice shirt), but the problem vexed him. He was the only free member of the company, and so it fell to him to free the others. The responsibility was his, and it weighed heavily on him.

It was then that he eyed the sword propped in its sheath by the chaise in the centre of the room. No guard had attempted to take it from him, not even when he was escorted to the king. Clearly, they didn’t think him dangerous enough to bother. And they’d be right. Anyone trained for combat would recognize at a glance that Bilbo could not wield a sword.

But wearing it to dinner … the thought scandalized Bilbo and filled him with dread.

But it would send a clear message of intent. A signal that he was not ready to pander to Thranduil just yet. He was there to negotiate. And negotiating sometimes required carefully veiled threats, even the kind of threat that could never be acted upon.

But no, of course not. What a Tookish thought, wearing a sword to dinner! Bilbo couldn’t entertain the thought for more than a second. Well … maybe he could wear it into the room, then take it off and place it by the door, like one would with a walking stick or a raincoat.

Before he could make up his mind, the prince that had escorted him to his rooms in the first place came to fetch him. He looked unsurprised to see Bilbo’s change of clothes. Perhaps he had been told, or even involved, in the gesture somehow.

He escorted Bilbo to the dining hall. Bilbo did not wear the sword, though he thought about it constantly as they walked.

There was a long crescent-shaped table in the wide room which opened to the stars above, silhouettes of treetops and branches reaching into the glowing starry sky. Wine flowed as freely here as at any well-hosted hobbit party, with succulent dishes filling the table. Bilbo’s mouth watered.

He was escorted to the heart of the crescent, the head of the table, a space occupied by the King in a finely carved wooden chair. Bilbo was offered a place of honour directly beside the King so that they could converse. There was enough distance between them and the rest of the merrymaking elves that they could talk in privacy, though Bilbo was highly aware of many eyes upon him. It was a frustrating thing to feel, when upon turning around, no-one seemed to be looking his way.

Bilbo took the seat offered to him, and returned Thranduil’s formal greeting in what stilted Sindarin he remembered from the lessons of his youth. Thranduil looked pleased, so he considered it a victory, and tried not to be inelegant as he set about sating his unbearable hunger.

Halfway through the night, he had not gotten beyond small talk and pleasantries. He was ashamed at himself. No-one interrupted them. There was nothing keeping Thranduil’s attention away from him. Thranduil deflected all talk about the dwarves as skilfully as a warrior deflecting blows. Bilbo wrestled his impatience under control. He had to try a different tactic. Less direct. He had to endear himself to his host. Being polite hadn’t worked. He had to be a little more daring.

‘I cannot help but wonder,’ Bilbo began tentatively, ‘if you did not gift me a child’s outfit.’

To his surprise, Thranduil laughed. He had a charming laugh. It was an engaging and kind laugh, but not unlike the purring of a tiger. The king’s laugh was captivating but with an undercurrent of danger, a suggestion that kindness could turn to viciousness in the blink of an eye without even changing his expression.

‘I must confess, my best seamstresses could not fashion a new outfit for you in the space of half a day,’ Thranduil said, mock-chastened. ‘But they did have time to adjust some of my son’s old clothes.’

The casual statement hit Bilbo like a brick. His son. Bilbo was wearing the altered clothes of the _son_ of a _king_. A king who was hosting him at dinner. A king who currently had Bilbo’s associates all locked in a dungeon.

Touché, your highness.

‘I am honoured,’ Bilbo said. Thranduil gave a single obliging tilt of the head. Bilbo tensely remembered the description of that nod from Balin’s recounting of the strained relationship between Thorin’s grandfather and the elvish king. It was completely without pomp or condescension, that nod. But it suggested a kind of benign hostility. It was entirely beguiling, like the rest of the elvish king.

‘I have to ask,’ Bilbo began, then bit his lower lip.

An idea occurred to him. It was a mad idea. A Tookish idea. But it was an idea at least. He didn’t have to put it to use. He reined himself in before he could get excited and give himself away. Thranduil watched Bilbo, giving no indication of noticing the inner struggle Bilbo had been going through since stepping into the room. ‘I have to ask,’ Bilbo repeated, ‘are there any children in the woodland realm? It’s just that I have not seen any. Every single elf I have seen since my arrival, they are all adults.’

Thranduil tilted his head to the side. For a moment the question appeared to catch him unawares. Then he lifted his wineglass to his lips and hummed around it, considering his response.

‘I forget that most races do not know this about elves and our children,’ Thranduil said idly. ‘We live for a very long time, until we are killed. For most elves that does not happen within a thousand years. If we were to bear children nearly as often as other races, we would soon overpopulate Middle Earth.’

‘There are no children in the woodland realm?’ Bilbo asked. ‘None at all?’

‘Not in a very long time,’ Thranduil said. For a brief moment, he seemed withdrawn. Then his beguiling smile returned. Bilbo made his decision. He had no other idea to pursue. He had to take a risk, and do some beguiling of his own.

‘I confess that the idea of a childless city frightens me. I come from a community where there are always little ones getting underfoot.’ He fought down the urge to take a deep breath or stuff his mouth full of venison. He had told bigger lies to less important people. ‘And especially since I am soon to be blessed with a child of my own …’

‘Is that so, master hobbit?’ Thranduil suddenly asked. For a terrifying second, Bilbo was convinced he had been caught out before even getting chance to finish his sentence. But Thranduil’s expression was not testing, or hard. It was enthralled.

‘It is so,’ Bilbo said, sounding only slightly less embarrassed than he felt.

‘You have my congratulations,’ Thranduil said, without even a trace of irony. ‘I did not realize you were married,’ he said, and Bilbo wondered if he saw in the king’s shifting expression a suggestion of plans reluctantly changing.

He cleared his throat. ‘Well, to be perfectly frank, your highness, I am not married.’

The king’s dark eyebrows quirked. ‘I see. Forgive my imprudence in asking, but does that not leave the mother of your child in a delicate position?’

Bilbo’s blushing sheepishness was entirely authentic as he mumbled his reply.

‘What did you say, master Baggins?’ Thranduil asked, in hushed fascination. Bilbo sank slightly into his chair. The king had heard him perfectly clearly, he knew it. He humoured him anyway.

‘I said, your highness, that the mother of my child is, technically, me. I am with child.’

If any of the elves sitting nearby heard Bilbo’s statement, they did a very, very good job of hiding it. There was a deathly pause in the conversation as Thranduil considered the words he had just heard, and Bilbo felt his heart beat wildly in his throat.

‘I am very much intrigued, master hobbit,’ Thranduil said slowly, finally. ‘I had no idea the males of your race could bear children. I will not insult you by suggestion that you jest,’ although in simply saying it, Thranduil knew, and so did Bilbo, that the king was delivering a thinly veiled threat and warning, ‘but I must know how such a thing can be?’

‘I forget that most races do not know this about hobbits and our children,’ Bilbo said, self-consciously mirroring Thranduil’s wording with a wry twist at the corner of his lips. ‘Yes, male hobbits can bear children. And while we are being a little imprudent with each other, I hope you will forgive me saying that hobbits are so fertile that it makes more sense for me to be pregnant than not. The very ground beneath a hobbit’s feet is fertile enough to grow anything. If you were to see the Shire in summer, your highness, you would understand. Flowers and children everywhere. It is heavenly.’

The Took was practically braying in the corner of his brain. Well. At least he wasn’t lying about hobbit fertility and male pregnancies. He hoped the injection of truth would make his story more convincing. If he could just keep Thranduil distracted by the subject of queer hobbit biology …

‘It seems Yavannah has a sense of humour,’ Thranduil said, genuinely amused. ‘Hobbits are creatures of the earth, as I understand. Closer in nature to flowers than to men. It seems you defy even the firmest of the laws that govern the rest of Middle Earth. How charming to be so blessed,’ he murmured, as if to himself. ‘How utterly charming.’

‘Your people are very fond of children?’ Bilbo asked conversationally, fingering the edge of his gifted green coat guiltily.

‘Our children are our greatest blessing,’ Thranduil said. Bilbo was immediately struck by sureness that it was the most honest thing either of them had said all evening. He caught a glimpse, out of the corner of his eye, of the king’s son glancing openly at them from his place further down the table, a tender expression in his eyes.

‘This does raise a question,’ Thranduil said, bringing Bilbo out of his musings about young elves and whether they were as awkward and troublesome as fauntlings. ‘I cannot help but wonder, master Baggins, who the child’s other father is?’

The look on Thranduil’s face when Bilbo met his eyes was far too perceptive. Bilbo’s heart went from being in his throat to plummeting all the way down to his toes.

‘He is among those imprisoned in my dungeons, is he not.’

Bilbo calculated the likelihood of Thranduil being convinced of Bilbo’s pregnancy, and of him simply toying with his guest after seeing right through the lie.

‘He is,’ Bilbo said plainly, deciding to stick like sap to his story until Thranduil directly called him out on it and threw him in a dungeon with the rest of the company. Then, quite frankly, it could be the Took’s turn for all he cared.

Thranduil considered in silence the new development. For the most part, the rest of the feast was spent in silent appreciation of the food and wordless contemplation of the situation.

Where Thranduil looked as stoic and serene as a river full of underlying currents, Bilbo could feel his apprehension and concern showing on his face. He only hoped it looked like the apprehension and concern of a pregnant hobbit with an imprisoned lover, and not the apprehension and concern of a bad liar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Post more comments. Maybe it’ll make me write faster.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the gorgeous comments! I couldn’t ask for lovelier readers. This chapter is a bit filler-y, but I hope you continue to enjoy the story <3

Thranduil, for the first time in centuries, paced agitatedly in his quarters.

The hobbit was with child. His appetite at the feast, if nothing else, supported the stiffly made confession. Master Baggins had eaten his own weight in meat and vegetables while studiously avoiding the wine.

Thranduil was torn between sympathy and outrage with the hobbit’s dwarvish lover. How could an expectant father place his partner and child in such danger, taking them to confront a dragon? It was unthinkable! But, the hobbit’s belly was only barely rounded, Thranduil reminded himself. It was early days. Master Baggins himself probably had not realized he was pregnant until a day or two into the woods.

It was an unusual match. Surely, a dwarf had little to offer a hobbit. A mountain, even full of treasure, was ill-suited to Bilbo Baggins. A child of Yavannah, especially a pregnant one, needed an environment of trees, of grass, of life. Not walls of stone, hidden from the light of the sun.

But a woodland realm infested with spiders was no more suitable to a pregnant hobbit, Thranduil pondered with a troubled frown. What Master Baggins needed was his safe, flowering Shire, surrounded by his kin. But travelling back West over the goblin-infested craggy mountains that Bilbo had described would be too risky for a pregnancy. Which meant the next safest place, Thranduil grudgingly conceded, would be with the other father’s kin. With dwarves. Dwarves were more protective of their children than they were of their treasure, and it was highly unlikely Master Baggins would be forced to carry out whatever task he had been brought along for, now that his circumstances had changed so drastically.

Unless Thorin Oakenshield was more cruel, selfish and ambitious than even Thranduil imagined.

The nearest dwarf community that fitted the bill was the Iron Hills. It was near enough to be a safe travelling distance, if Thranduil were to arrange for a troop to escort them at least halfway.

But there was yet one more thing to consider. If Thranduil was to release the dwarves based on Bilbo’s pregnancy, he may be revealing a relationship not all were aware of. No member of the company had asked after their hobbit. A brief talk with the guards had revealed that. That _could_ be chalked up to distrust of elves, but it also indicated a secrecy that Master Baggins might be hesitating to divulge. Did the father even know that he was going to be a father? The sole concerns of the entire company, according to the guards, was getting free and verbally abusing their jailers. Not one among them appeared to suffer extreme anxiousness, the way a dwarf normally would when forced to exist in ignorance of a pregnant loved one’s safety.

Perhaps the hobbit’s situation was more complex than he had been willing to admit. Perhaps, even, there was no love between himself and the child’s father, only a night of passion borne of the stress of travel, a loss of control and a need for release. Dwarves were freer with their bodies than they were with their hearts. Thranduil had lived long enough to know that. But what of hobbits? Were they romantic creatures? Had Master Baggins offered his heart and had it trampled upon by a dwarf’s carelessness?

But Thranduil was getting ahead of himself. He was allowing his dislike of dwarves to colour his judgement. There was every possibility that the distrust of his prisoners was so profound that at least one of them would conceal the existence of a pregnant lover out of fear of how that lover would be treated. There was also a chance that Master Baggins had simply not had the time to reveal his condition to his partner.

Either way, if Thranduil was going to get any kind of co-operation out of the dwarves, it was eventually going to involve his hobbit guest.

But for the time being, he decided, he could forego direct diplomacy in favour of a little furtive investigation.

…

‘Likely suspects?’

Tauriel hummed in confirmation. She had mixed feelings about going to observe the dwarves for what appeared, to her, to be a completely fatuous reason. Why not simply _ask_ the hobbit who the father was? It seemed the easiest and most sensible way of getting an answer.

Legolas, for some reason, was of a mind with his father. The hobbit had been visibly uncomfortable revealing his pregnancy, and Thranduil did not want to interrogate a pregnant guest when that guest clearly would never had admitted their gravidity at all unless it was strictly necessary. Furthermore, and on a less considerate note, both the king and prince were being unnecessarily enthusiastic about their little guessing game.

So as to avoid rousing suspicion among their prisoners by being too apparent in their observation, Tauriel and Legolas shared the job between them of identifying the most probable candidates for Master Baggins’ paramour.

‘Out of the seven I was assigned, four can be safely crossed off of the list,’ Tauriel reported. If she was going to be given such a ridiculous job to do, she was going to do it properly, dammit. ‘Two were much too old to father a child. The other two were married.’

‘But three seemed appropriate?’

‘Yes. The half-bald dwarf, to begin with. I nearly dismissed him simply because of his unappealing countenance and rotten attitude, but there is no accounting for taste. I also almost dismissed the dwarf with the axe in his head because he does not seem able to speak Westron, which would create significant communication problems, but you said Master Baggins has an aptitude for language.’

‘In half a day, his understanding of Sindarin has improved drastically simply through conversation. But the dwarf you speak of has _an axe_ embedded _in his skull_.’

‘If a difference of race does not bother our guest, I fail to see how an injury would. The final dwarf I think a likely match is the one with the hat.’

Legolas did not look sceptical about that, but he did not look reassured. Tauriel did not expect him to. Legolas shared his father’s opinion also in wanting to keep Bilbo in the woodland realm, at least until he had given birth, and then for some time after so the child had time to grow before being sent out into the dangerous world beyond the walls.

It turned out his discomfort extended beyond, to his own failure in narrowing down the list of suspects from the six dwarves he had examined from a distance. The two princes, while young, were technically of age. They were also handsome. The dark-haired one had flirted with the guards while the older one bore the deliberate gravity that all dwarves did when trying to appear impressive. It was possible that either one of the princes had seduced Bilbo for their own youthful, vain reasons.

The bookish dwarf in woollen mittens also at first seemed too young, but he also clearly desired to be free of his eldest brother’s coddling, and it was not unthinkable that having a secret lover in Master Baggins would provide a great sense of freedom to an inexperienced, adolescent dwarf.

The eldest brother seemed at first, like two of Tauriel’s charges, to be too old. But Legolas theorized that his role in caring for his two brothers had sent him prematurely grey, as there were no signs aside from his silver hair that he was much beyond middle age. Finally, the thieving dwarf with the star-shaped hair appeared outwardly to be entirely unworthy of the attentions of the prim and polite Master Baggins. But, once again, there was no accounting for taste, and opposites have been known to attract.

‘What of the exiled king?’ Tauriel hazarded to ask, when Legolas did not mention him. Legolas looked unconvinced.

‘A dwarf king, engaging in a dalliance with a humble hobbit? I do not think Thorin would deign to give Master Baggins his notice. He is too proud.’

Tauriel did not mention the dwarf king’s name again. But that stern face did not leave her mind. And a nagging feeling told her it was never far from Bilbo’s mind, either.

Unbeknownst to them both, a certain king was suspecting exactly the same thing.


	8. Chapter 8

Thorin did not expect to be summoned to stand before the elf king a second time. He thought he had used up his one chance to speak. He had been content with the words he chose, even if those words had turned Thranduil permanently against them. The hobbit was still out there. If he was as clever as he seemed, then they still had a chance.

But he had seen and heard neither hide nor hair of the hobbit for days, and now that his faith was wavering, this second summons from his enemy came and made him doubtful. What could Thranduil possibly want to say to him that could not be said through prison bars? What could Thranduil possibly want to hear?

On the way, Thorin was not restrained, nor was he surrounded on all sides. It was almost as if Thranduil were providing attendants to guide him to the throne room instead of sending guards to fetch him. Thorin wanted to believe Thranduil had changed his tone and was going to release the dwarves from their unjust imprisonment, but scepticism kept him scowling all the way up the many steps to where the air was cleaner and the sunlight was able to pierce through the many interwoven branches and carved support beams overhead.

Thranduil, as before, was reclining smugly on his ludicrous antler-throne. Thorin’s scowl deepened reflexively, but he kept his bearing as kingly as he could make it. He would not give the elf-king the pleasure of reducing him to a hissing, spitting animal. At least not yet.

Thranduil, to Thorin’s suspicion, waved away the guards so they could speak in private.

This time, Thorin was not dishevelled and matted with webs and dirt (he had managed to see to his appearance more or less adequately since their last meeting), but he no longer had his coat, his mail or his weapons. He had worn similarly sparse clothing when smithing in the towns of men, and felt infuriatingly modest in such attire, especially when forced into conference with _him_.

There was an element of purpose in the way Thranduil descended the steps so that he and Thorin stood once again on level ground. His expression was consciously fixed and calm, but in his eyes Thorin saw a suggestion of curiosity mingled with determination, or perhaps even concern. His own annoyance gave way to interest and a little satisfaction. Something was bothering Thranduil, and Thranduil needed Thorin to help him untangle the problem. Well. He’d have to wait and see how co-operative Thorin was in the mood to be, wouldn’t he.

‘I will begin this conversation by stating outright that your hobbit is presently sleeping in my guest quarters.’

Thorin balked.

‘For the sake of transparency, I will also disclose that I am aware of his condition.’

The look Thorin received could have been one of two Looks, and misinterpreting it either way wasn’t going to end well. The first interpretation Thorin made, and was inclined to settle on, was that Thranduil expected Thorin to know exactly what he was talking about. The second interpretation was that Thranduil expected Thorin to have no idea what he was talking about.

Thorin thought quickly. Assuming that Thranduil was telling the truth about Bilbo sleeping in his guest quarters, and Thorin didn’t detect any lie in that statement, then either Bilbo was playing at being morbidly sick, or Bilbo was betraying them. Thorin was disinclined to choose the latter. He only wished Bilbo would have found a way to share his plan with the rest of the Company so they knew _how_ to play along. Well. That wasn’t what had happened, so he’d just have to play it by ear until Thranduil let slip exactly what Bilbo’s “condition” was.

‘You are aware of his condition, you say,’ Thorin said slowly. ‘Well. Then. You understand how distressing it is for him to be separated from the rest of the company. Our physician is meant to be taking responsibility for him.’

He internally cringed, hoping he had aimed true. Thranduil’s contemplative gaze gave away nothing. The word condition suggested something medical, perhaps a terminal injury or illness. Didn’t it?

‘And who else is taking responsibility?’ Thranduil asked. Thorin paused. He daren’t ask for clarification. That would be too much of a giveaway. Was a member of the company meant to be to blame for Bilbo’s “condition”? Thorin straightened his back, choosing what, to him, was the only utilitarian answer. He was the company’s leader, after all.

‘I am.’

Thranduil looked mildly startled, which disconcerted Thorin. Had he said the wrong thing? Had he given something obvious away with one misstep?

Thranduil got over his surprise fairly quickly by masking it with that maddening elfish look of serenity.

‘You freely admit your part in the hobbit’s present state?’

Thorin tried to muster an expression of solemn accountability. ‘I do.’

Thranduil mulled this over for a few seconds as Thorin tried to imagine what the hell Bilbo had done. Maybe he had been inspired by what had happened to Thorin’s father, and faked a post-battle madness of some kind. But how was that meant to help them escape? Unless … unless part of “taking responsibility for his hobbit’s condition” meant taking him to a secure place, far from the danger of orcs and goblins and the judgement and alienation of his own people.

With this in mind, he was ready for Thranduil’s next question.

‘What do you intend to do?’

‘I intend to take Master Baggins to the Iron Hills, where he will be looked after and tended to by my cousins. They are not accustomed to hobbits, but under the circumstances, he will of course be welcomed by my kin,’ he said evenly.

‘Of course,’ Thranduil murmured, looking vaguely preoccupied. Then, to Thorin’s continued surprise, he smiled benignly. ‘It is always a good thing, to welcome a new member to one’s family.’

Thorin, still confused but determined not to show it, inclined his head.

‘I cannot help but wonder how this came to pass,’ Thranduil said. At Thorin’s dark and puzzled expression, he changed tack. ‘But of course, such things are between yourself and Master Baggins.’

‘Yes, naturally,’ Thorin said, trying to sound stern. It came naturally when he noted the slightly prodding way Thranduil had wondered aloud. It had sounded slightly accusatory, as if Thorin owed Thranduil his divulgence. Fuelled by the undercurrent of anger that always flowed whenever he was in Thranduil’s presence, Thorin went on. ‘You understand, seeing to his needs is impossible from the confines of a cell. He needs to be taken to the Iron Hills before his _condition_ progresses any further.’

‘Naturally,’ Thranduil said. ‘But surely you also understand that I cannot release your company and Master Baggins to travel without being convinced of his safety.’

Thorin just barely held himself back from hurling a barrage of khuzdul curses at the elvish king. Expecting information when it was not one’s place to ask was one thing. Questioning a dwarf’s devotion to one to whom they owed fealty was entirely another. And Thranduil brazenly taking it upon himself to worry for Bilbo? Who did he think he was?

‘Master Baggins,’ Thorin ground out, ‘is safest when he is with the company. I will not have some – some _pointy eared jailer_ question the quality of my protection. I have already said, our physician is seeing to Master Baggins personally. Our hobbit already has the loyalty of one King, he does not need a _spare_.’

‘You claim Master Baggins’s best interests are best served by you, then?’

‘Of course,’ Thorin spat.

‘Then why, o King, do you not call him by his first name?’

Thorin, still off-kilter in his anger, was thrown by the question. At his silence, Thranduil began to slowly pace around the circular platform like a cat who has spotted a foolish mouse.

‘It has been confusing me, all this time we have been speaking. It seems unusual that you would call him only by his surname, given the state of affairs. Unless, of course, you will not be taking responsibility for Master Baggins _himself_.’

Thorin, unable to get back into stride with the progression of the conversation, and still unnervingly unaware of precisely what the hell kind of “condition” the bloody Baggins was meant to have, remained as stoically silent as possible. Thranduil took advantage of the silence to continue.

‘I have taken a fondness to Master Baggins. And I can see, in your jealousy, that you have noted that fondness. All I ask for is assurance that he himself will not be discarded, or left neglected, once the time comes.’

 _Once_ what _time comes??_ Thorin thought in a panic. He kept his stance rigid, however, and stared directly at Thranduil as he delivered his answer. The whole thing was a gamble, anyway. He’d either have to keep gambling or give it all up, and he was not the sort of dwarf to give up.

‘Master Baggins will never find himself neglected by me, or by my kin. I am responsible for his present state. I have wrought unexpected and irreversible change upon his life, and I shall always remain answerable for it. I owe to him my eternal loyalty. The creature of whom you have become so fond will remain in my care for the rest of my life, and if my life ends before his, that duty shall pass to my cousins and my nephews. Take his care upon yourself, and you will be dealing a graver insult to me than simple imprisonment.’

The gravity of his statement, though it did not appear to give Thranduil the specific answer he wanted, had the desired effect. Slowly, and with the air of one who has come to a decision, Thranduil returned to his throne.

‘I hear sincerity in your words,’ Thranduil said. ‘And rest assured, I will consider them carefully. Know only that whatever action I take from now on, it will be for the sake of Master Baggins and the life he nurtures within him.’

Thorin was sent, for the time being, back to his cell, feeling outlandishly bewildered and less hopeful for release than he had been before. Whatever the hell Bilbo had told Thranduil, he had clearly overdone it. It was probably all the Took’s fault.

That fool of a Took.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BAHAHAHAHAHAHA SEE WHAT I DID
> 
> littlebirdy3tweet and Trialia suggested that Thorin play along with Bilbo’s ruse without actually knowing what the ruse was. Thanks for the inspiration, guys. Thorin hates you, but I think you’re fab.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Tauriel is very direct. Everyone’s favourite musical dwarf catches on quicker than Thorin did.   
> And then unknowingly starts the biggest shipping war Mirkwood has ever seen.

Bilbo was now quite used to receiving open Looks from elves in the corridors.

Aside from repeated offers from Thranduil’s physicians to “look him over” (or take over the role of midwife for his alleged pregnancy), Bilbo had managed to avoid most unwelcome and risky interactions with Thranduil's people. He felt a little guilty for his freedom to roam around, especially since he wasn’t allowed to use it to visit the dwarves. He would have snuck away to see them, but he strongly suspected that the restrictions on his movement were partially a test of obedience. He knew he was being observed, though he could not see his observers when he turned around. Elves were apparently more silent and sure-footed than hobbits when they wanted to be. Now that they knew he was there and were all spellbound by him and his bizarre biology, he was never left alone, not even when he seemed to be the only person in the room.

He suspected that another reason behind his not being allowed to see the dwarves was that Thranduil was cross-checking his story. He knew Thranduil had pulled a couple of the dwarves from their cells, and strongly suspected they were being interrogated. The more time went on, the less he knew how he’d finally face them.

More harrowing was the very real feeling of the Took trying to break free and regain control. Being the Baggins, he felt, meant being the grown-up. This delicate situation was not one that he could entrust to his impulsive and erratic other half.

The situation seemed to evolve into new states of delicateness despite and without him, for every new conversation with the king or king’s son or the obliging and rather agreeable lady guard captain exposed Bilbo to new rules and new curious expressions from his hosts, and even a few interesting (and slightly insulting) questions.

‘If you might forgive me for being blunt,’ the lady captain, Tauriel, asked carefully in Sindarin in the afternoon as she sat with Bilbo and shared a bowl of sweet black grapes. ‘The king and the prince believe it would be unwise to ask you too many questions about …’ _about your child’s father_ , Bilbo heard, and replied as if she had said it aloud.

‘I take it you often do not agree with the king and the prince,’ he said. Tauriel eyed him carefully, and ate another grape. ‘That’s alright,’ Bilbo continued. ‘Disagreeing with authority is not always a bad thing. It keeps them accountable,’ Bilbo said boldly, then bit his tongue. The Took, having almost clawed its way back out, settled resentfully back into its corner of his mind.

Tauriel smiled, a secretive, conspiratorial smile of the type Bilbo used to share with his Tookish cousins when they were all young and mischievous together. It made him like her more, and he smiled back.

‘I cannot help but wonder if it may be easer simply to ask you who the child’s father is, and why you hesitate in speaking of the nature of your connection,’ she asked. It was a direct question, but her tone was reticent and hesitating, as if she had herded the words out one by one like unruly sheep.

They sat in silence for a little while. Bilbo was torn. Should he speak? He did not know what the other dwarves had said. He did not know where Thranduil was at with his own theories, what he believed, or what the dwarves believed. Not for the first or the last time, he lamented being unable to communicate with them.

But the question also revived a painful, circular emotional purgatory Bilbo had been living in for the past few days as he relived that moment in the garden, the moment the Took had stolen out from under him as soon as he thought the Baggins wasn’t coping with the king’s attention. He had relived the moment the Took had taken Thorin’s arm and then dumped it all on the Baggins as soon as Thorin went and _held his hand_ like some twitterpated tween. It probably wasn’t even a romantic gesture to dwarves, holding hands like that. It was probably just Thorin’s way of keeping Bilbo nearby and out of trouble in the dark, disorienting woods.

What _was_ the nature of his connection with Thorin? Assuming Thorin was going to be the designated “father” of his “child”. He had no way of guessing which other dwarf would have taken responsibility, assuming Thranduil was simply asking them one by one. Well, Bofur was likely. Fili and Kili, bless those outrageous boys, would probably both claim responsibility. Thorin … Thorin would be outraged at the suggestion. Bilbo wilted at the thought.

Tauriel silently watched Bilbo wilt, and did not ask the question again. There was real pain in his eyes. He looked as if he had been thwarted by himself. Tauriel decided to leave the king and the prince to their little guessing game, and as well to leave Bilbo to his self-imposed inaccessible heart, and his Thranduil-imposed isolation.

…

“Irritated” was not an adequate word for what Thranduil was feeling. “Out of his mind”, maybe. “Near murder”, probably.

So far, no less than three dwarves had denied the existence of a hobbit. Another three had denied the possibility of the hobbit being Thranduil’s guest, and instantly accused the king of holding Master Baggins hostage. Not entirely a lie, but not entirely true, and Thranduil resented the accusation. Another three of the dwarves changed the subject every time hobbits were brought up.

Best of all, the remaining four were all claiming to be the father.

Thranduil had no less than six glasses of wine poured at the end of that special day. The morning had been punctuated by unfruitful sessions of questioning with the would-be princes. From what Thranduil could gather, aside from the four, Bilbo’s romantic entanglements as well as his condition were a secret well-kept from everyone but, allegedly, the physician (who was among the dwarves denying the existence of a hobbit, which Thranduil figured was grossly irresponsible, and decided not to allow the dwarf to continue as Master Baggin’s midwife. He’d convince the hobbit to allow himself to be seen to by an elvish physician even if it took months).

The brothers both came across too confused to be convincing, and Thranduil couldn’t help but doubt their claim of a relationship with the hobbit whilst they couldn’t speak their own words with confidence. The defensiveness regarding their uncle’s involvement suggested to Thranduil that they were trying somehow to defend their king’s honour, which irked him. Why would a dwarf not want to be part of the birth of their own child? And _what_ had the nephews believing that Thorin should not have to take responsibility for it? Did they think somehow they were taking a blow for their king by accepting the charge of a half-breed babe born out of wedlock?

The second fully adult dwarf, and last among the Four Prospective Fathers, brought severe doubt into Thranduil’s mind, but for different reasons entirely.

Thranduil had believed up until that point that Bilbo was the only one whose heart was at risk. But now, here was a dwarf who appeared genuinely deeply reassured to hear about Bilbo being well-fed and hosted in a King’s guest quarters. In his dirty hat and scarf, Thranduil initially doubted his eligibility for Bilbo’s affections, but he did have an air of the loveable idiot about him. Instead of radiating expressionless, dutiful commitment like Thorin, this inferior but slightly more charming dwarf had made no effort to hide his enthusiasm.

Was it possible the hobbit had two lovers, who were mutually unaware they were sharing a partner? Thranduil felt two things. He decided to wear the disapproval on his face when revealing the story to his son, and file away the amusement for several centuries in the future when he could share the story of scandalous romance at the dinner table without jeopardizing the honour of any living persons.

Upon Thranduil saying the words “your hobbit is with child” (perhaps he had used more serious wording with Thorin, and set a different mood for the whole conversation? Hmm), the hatted dwarf immediately and loudly blessed the rocks and the stars and “even your bleedin’ lot” that He and His Hobbit were being graced with such a bounty, of which he was surely a most unworthy and humble dwarf, before exploding into a litany of purple prose about the unity of Mahal and Yavannah and how love conquers all things, including apparent biological incompatibilities, which Thranduil could only put an end to by having him carried off by the guards.

He did not have the dwarf sent immediately back to the cells, guessing that the litany would continue until the whole company knew of his and Bilbo’s relationship. Including Thorin. Who apparently believed himself to be the hobbit’s sole partner, and only possible father of the unborn child.

Thranduil knew Thorin’s ability to hold a grudge. He knew how seriously Thorin took his honour. At what risk would it place Bilbo, to have it revealed that he had dallied with another dwarf, let alone a lowly miner? To Thranduil’s consternation, he found himself worrying also about the lowly miner, and hoping the child turned out to be his. Irritating he may be, but he was a good deal more starry-eyed than the gruff king. Perhaps Bilbo had grown tired of Thorin’s cold inexpressiveness and sought affection elsewhere in a moment of weakness, which the naïve lower-class dwarf mistook for a gesture of love?

The naïve dwarf himself languished in an isolated cell, kept carefully separate from the others, while Thranduil drank his wine and indulged in a number of soppy, adorable fantasies about a daring little hobbit riding off into the sunset with a shoddy but earnest twinkly-eyed dwarf, while a conceited and sulky dwarf king sat brooding in the shadows over his duty and honour.

Never let it be said elf kings can’t entertain themselves for hours with nought but a bottle of wine and a good love story.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if its the computer that i'm on or what, but the thing isn't letting me copy-paste the preformatted version, so if the formatting looks weird, that's purely my fault. I will try to reupload asap. The only reason i'm posting this now is because you guys haven't had an update in months.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Great Shipping War of Mirkwood begins. Legolas referees and feels a tad remorseful. Tauriel is righteously upset on behalf of demure hobbits. A lightbulb goes off in Thorin’s head. Thranduil offers a hug.  
> And the Baggins has had enough damn screen time.

It was unbearable. The strain of keeping the trapdoor shut on the Took was beginning to take a physical toll. The elves took note of Bilbo’s increasing tiredness and had confined him for the past three afternoons to his room, bringing him broth and red meat and herb tea. And that only aggravated his other symptom of strain; his abrupt changes of temper.

The elves, bless them, took his mood swings in their stride as simply being a typical sign of pregnancy. The elf assigned to bring his dinner this particular evening did not even blink when the broth (too hot, dammit!!) was hurled past his ear and into the corridor. Bilbo was later told that Thranduil’s wife, during her pregnancy, had shot so fiercely at the servants who interrupted her naps that the stores in the armoury ran too low to hunt.

He sat, fuming at himself and trying not to fume at his captor-hosts, who were really only doing their jobs, and attempted to reason with himself. It was either a delusion of the magical woods, or a newfound ability to communicate between his two halves, but Bilbo felt he could almost hear the conversation:

_It is not time. You will ruin everything._

**You aren’t making any bloody progress. We need to shimmy things along if the dwarves are to be out of their cells by Durin’s day.**

_A delicate situation like this cannot be rushed! We need to be patient. We need to wait for the right moment._

**And what moment would that be? Face it, you meek idiot, you don’t have a plan. Enough pussyfooting. It’s time to get this show on the road.**

Bilbo shook his head and clenched the blankets tightly in his fist, looking helplessly around as if Gandalf might step out of the shadows and help him in his struggle. There was no help to be had. Not in this battle.  
 _You cannot._

**Too late, possum. It’s my turn.**

Bilbo’s hands relaxed in the blankets. He blinked slowly, carefully, as if testing his control. Then, slowly, surely, he smiled.

*

Thorin was pacing restlessly in his cell when Fili returned. It ahd been hours. When his eldest nephew was finally marched past the bars, Thorin struggled not to show his eagerness for news. He did spare a glance, however, and that is when he felt the first tinglings in his beard of something being very wrong.

The guards left and Thorin made his way to the bars. There did not appear to be any eavesdroppers aside from the rest of the company. For the past couple of days, guards had not been stationed, or at least not in sight. He did not suspect Thranduil was considered them enough of a threat to place hidden guards.

‘What transpired?’ Thorin asked. After one brief and catty argument with Kili, Thorin had stopped beginning conversations with “what did you tell him”, and quietly assumed that any answer Thranduil wanted, he’d find a way to read it in his nephew’s faces (he had discovered enough empty cookie jars to know that they (and Dwalin) where terrible liars).

Fili approached his bars, only just in sight. His expression was pinched.

‘I’m not entirely sure,’ Fili said carefully. Thorin’s beard tingled harder. Fili was never careful except at funerals.

‘Does it have to do with our burglar?’ Balin’s voice sounded sharp.

‘Yyyes,’ Fili said slowly, before glancing at Thorin. Thorin’s heart dropped into his boots.

‘What about him? Is something wrong?’ Have they caught him out? Sounds of worry echoed from the other cells, and Fili cleared his throat.

‘I think …’ he coughed, then looked at Thorin meaningfully, as if he expected to find some answers in his uncle’s face. ‘This might be a bit delicate,’ he said.

Thorin’s mind raced. If Bilbo was dead, captured or a betrayer, Fili wouldn’t be dancing around the issue in such a way. So what could possibly be wrong?

*

‘Throwing a poisoned breadcrumb to the ducks?’ Tauriel asked. Legolas did not look up from where he stood at the edge of a walkway, gazing down at the cells. He could pick out most of the words, but some were lost in faint echoes. He dearly wanted to creep lower but his father had ordered him not to risk losing the upper hand. He had to let the dwarves think that their conversation was private.

‘I was not the one who told the prince,’ Legolas murmured. ‘And it is the prince who decides whether to share the news. I’m merely observing.’

‘I’m surprised you haven’t gone down there to join the conversation,’ Tauriel said, feigning indifference. The bitterness came through in her voice all the same.

‘You think it was petty to scatter news of Baggins’s pregnancy. And of the other dwarf’s claim.’

‘It was not our news to share,’ she replied rigidly. Legolas quirked an eyebrow. Tauriel lifted her chin. ‘I believe the hobbit has a reason for his adultery. Do you not think this may have been his reason for remaining silent on the subject of his child’s sire? What if he himself does not know who the father is? He may have revealed all in his own time. We have stolen that decision from him, and for what? Your father’s sport.’

Legolas said nothing and allowed Tauriel to froth at the injustice. Privately he agreed. He had been stunned when his father casually asked the golden-haired dwarf if he was aware that there was a question of the babe’s parentage. Legolas knew his father liked the Halfling. Surely he would not endanger his guest’s life simply in order to have an excuse to keep him, and possibly the hobbit-stealing dwarf, in the Greenwood rather than setting them and Thorin free?

The hat-wearing dwarf in question remained in isolation, which was probably for the best, given the way the increasingly heated conversation was headed.

The dwarf prince had revealed to the company, in no uncertain terms, that the hat-wearing dwarf Bofur had declared himself Bilbo’s lover. The conversation had looped in strange circles after that. Thorin had declared immediately that there was no question of Bilbo’s fidelity and that their miner had clearly made a ridiculous and impossible claim in an attempt to mislead the elf king. There was a vague, awkward lull in the conversation, followed by many of the dwarves reminding themselves out loud, and thus reminding Thorin, that Bofur had been the first to offer overtures of friendship to Bilbo and had been consistent in his affection throughout the journey, whilst Thorin had, well, not. At that, Legolas shot Tauriel a smug look. He, like his father, supported the miner’s claim on Bilbo’s heart, while Tauriel insisted that Bilbo’s love for the king was true. There were members of Thorin’s company who were of Tauriel’s opinion, including the half-bald axe-wielding maniac who threatened to stew the rotund dwarf in his own cooking pot if one more thing was said about Bilbo’s personal preferences.

There was another awkward lull when the second prince mentioned Bilbo’s personal priority of comfort and cheer over gold and titles, comfort and cheer being things Bofur had in spades, gold and titles being things over which Thorin had ownership in theory only.

Legolas and Tauriel were summoned away by a guard for the last of the conversation, which was probably fortunate, given the route the discussion eventually took.

‘Wait, Bilbo is _pregnant_??’

*

Bilbo Took, wearing his mysterious and lovely ring, fought the urge to cackle. Oh, what a mess his poor dear dwarves had made. He swiftly returned to his room and considered the situation. Thranduil was either showing off his puppeteering control of the situation by dropping information in bits and pieces, or he was trying to figure out the full extent of Bilbo’s hold over the situation. Or both. Well, if that was how he wanted to play it, fine. Bilbo was happy to play.

Hiding his ring the moment he was back in his room, Bilbo ruffled his clothing and hair. Then he went to the door and shyly called out. An attendant appeared within twenty seconds.

‘Master Baggins,’ she said, face betraying nothing and voice betraying little. ‘Tea was brought to your room, but you did not answer. We thought you missing.’

‘Missing?’ Bilbo repeated, shyly widening his eyes. ‘Oh, goodness, I am terribly sorry. I must have bundled myself up so tightly in the blankets they thought I was merely a lump. I hope I haven’t caused a fuss.’

‘Not at all, Master Baggins,’ the elf assured, as impassive as a block of wood. ‘Tell me what you desire. Shall we send for more tea?’

‘That does sound lovely, but perhaps later,’ Bilbo said in a kindly voice, inwardly cringing and hoping he wasn’t laying it on too thick. He felt like he was impersonating his aunt. ‘I was hoping, that is, if he is not too busy, that I might perhaps speak to your king?’

The attendant paused for just a moment. Bilbo mustered up a blush and a foot-shuffle.

‘Only if it is not too much trouble, of course I understand if the answer is no, I just feel that, well, that there is something I must divulge if I am to remain his majesty’s guest in good conscience.’

The attendant went to speak to the captain of the king’s guard. Bilbo returned to his room and waited. Part of him fiercely hoped that Thorin would understand, and that he had gauged Thranduil’s type of interest in his case accurately, but he had no time to dwell and he knew it. This thing had to get done quickly and surely, like a brick to the head. He admired the Baggins’s resourcefulness in coming up with a fake pregnancy in the first place, but the plan needed to be executed. There was no time to wait for the situation to sort itself out.

The attendant returned, and with the elf prince in tow, no less. Legolas walked with Bilbo to his father’s open throne room where the king had arranged himself on his throne as artfully as ever, like a bird lounging among a thicket with its silvery wings outstretched. Bilbo was overtaken with a bizarre urge to run up the steps and muss Thranduil’s hair beyond recognition, but he managed to bite it down.

‘Master Baggins wishes an audience,’ Legolas declared. Bilbo fought another urge, this one being to roll his eyes. Sons in the Shire were never so ridiculously formal with their fathers. He wondered whether Thranduil ever told his son bedtime stories, or kissed his grazed knees or even had a hand in teaching him to use that lethal and pretty bow. Probably not.

‘I have a confession to make,’ Bilbo said, timing it carefully to make it sound as blurted as possible. Thranduil raised a perfect dark eyebrow, a facial expression that Bilbo read as meaning “do go on”.

‘You have been a kind and generous host, to allow me such a lovely room with a soft bed and plenty of food, obliging my curiosity and ignorance and being most tolerant when I am rude to your servants,’ – he could practically feel the Baggins crying in shame at how he had thrown a bowl of broth out the door, oh, his father would have disowned him! – ‘and I have poorly repaid you with deception and reticence. I simply cannot continue to accept your generous protection without telling you the whole truth, vile as it is.’

Thranduil sat up slowly and uncrossed his legs. Bilbo did not know if the king’s expression had darkened or if a slight shadow had fallen upon his face, but whatever the case, Thranduil was taking him seriously.

‘And what deception is this that you speak of?’ Thranduil asked, smooth and clear as honey, ominous as a storm cloud.

‘You will think me … oh, I do not want to imagine what you will think of me,’ Bilbo said, hastily conjuring all the dreadful memories of his own childhood behaviour as possible. Peeing on mother’s rose garden. Stealing the neighbour’s cat. Climbing a tree and tossing rocks at every window in rock-tossing range. He had to pump some authenticity into his shame, otherwise Thranduil would never believe it. The slightest hint of guilty pleasure made its way into his tone as he recalled his earlier years, and he let it stay. It was somewhat appropriate to the subject, after all.

‘The truth is, my lord, I … I …’

He felt a small tear appear at the corner of his eye. Perhaps the Baggins bemoaning his losing of the reins. Bilbo Took let the tear fall, and kept his eyes on the ground, ears pricking at the sound of Thranduil’s feet descending the steps. ‘The plain truth is, my lord, I do not know who the father of my child is!’

Either the Baggins was so mortified, or the Took was so moved by his own brilliant acting, or the hilarity of the situation was too much, for suddenly Bilbo was bawling. He covered his face with both hands as he sobbed and sniffled, and then were hands upon his shoulders and gentle words being whispered in his ear. Unable to help himself, Bilbo leaned into the broad yet gentle shoulders of the elf who held and reassured him.

‘Hush, my good halfling,’ Thranduil murmured. ‘You will not be shamed here. You will find no judgement among the elves of Eryn Galen.’

Bilbo was gently rocked as he fitfully and slowly relinquished the waterworks, until all that was left was a soft sniffle here and there. He lifted his head and apologized profusely, declaring his humiliation at the whole situation, and oh, what a fickle and foolish and silly and horrible hobbit he was, and begged Thranduil to forgive him for getting tears all over his shoulder. Thranduil was remarkably pragmatic about the whole thing. He insisted that Bilbo not feel guilty that his two lovers were imprisoned whilst he himself slept in comfortable quarters, because after all, he was the pregnant one.

There was a suggestion of genuine softness in the king’s words and actions that Bilbo could not help but give the benefit of the doubt. A manipulative and self-interested king he was, this Thranduil fellow, but there was some care there. Perhaps he had read bedtime stories and kissed his son’s grazed knees, after all.

Legolas placed a hand on Bilbo’s shoulder and let Bilbo lean very slightly against his hip as he was led back to the guest quarters. Bilbo dithered in the doorway to his room before gazing up at the prince, once again fiddling with his sleeves.

‘I really am sorry about all of this,’ he said softly and a little wetly. ‘I know I must be causing an unreasonable amount of trouble. I really do not mean to be a nuisance. It’s just, discovering I am in the family way was stressful and bothersome enough, and now, well. Well.’

Legolas knelt before the hobbit, and oh, Bilbo was going to have to tell Thorin about this, about how he has only been here for handful of weeks and already had both the king and the prince literally kneeling before him.  
‘You are no nuisance, Master Baggins,’ Legolas said, somewhat wryly. ‘If anything, you have brought more excitement to my father’s court than we have had in the past century.’

Bilbo put on his best flustered face. ‘I’m sure that’s not, well, not that it is up to a hobbit to tell an elf what is appropriate, but I’m sure, that is to say, well,’ and descended into mumbles.

‘Peace, halfling. Dinner shall be brought to you in a few hours. I suggest you take that time to rest.’

Bilbo bade the prince good evening, and went to curl up on the bed. After that little display, there was a high chance the king was having him watched. He let himself nap, hiding his victorious grin in his elbow and the pillow, and by the time dinner was brought to his door, he was feeling good about the whole situation. And hoping with increasing desperation that his king, and his friend, would understand. Eventually.


End file.
